


staying steady

by deltachye



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Reader-Insert, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 10:18:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9067426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltachye/pseuds/deltachye
Summary: [reader x otabek altin]Steady.(adj.)firmly fixed, balanced; regular and continuous.(v.)make or become steady.(n.)a person's regular boyfriend or girlfriend.





	1. [i] - the hill with the half-shed trees

* * *

 

To others, he was rock: cold, immovable, expressionless… merciless. But to you, he was a pillar: built out of strength, reliability, and steadiness.

You found him working on his bike outside in the cool Kazakh autumnal air. It was where you could find him when he was anxious. He was easily predictable, not difficult to read once you knew how—when he was afraid of the future, he wanted to find something in the ‘now’ that he could do, and that was often tinkering with the motorbike. The sixteen year old wasn’t even allowed to ride it, but his grandfather was lenient and spoiled Otabek, so the boy had gotten quite good at manoeuvring the old streets.

“Altin,” you greeted, coming up to him with a wrapped sandwich and soda can in your hand. He looked up, his hair greased back with the product of long nights rather than gel, and a streak of black oil lined the side of his square jaw like war paint. His face settled into a patient smile when you held up the food.

“You didn’t have to.”

“But I did, so you’re going to eat it. C’mon, wash up.”

No further words were exchanged. He ate quietly, looking out the crest of the hill at the clear blue sky. No clouds were in sight, drifting far to the east. Most leaves had already fallen but the hardy ones clung on, dotting the horizon of the forest through the streaky skeletal reaches of bare branches. His deep eyes were dark but reflected a gentle light as he sat and looked out.

That was how you knew him best. He could’ve been the type to talk out of his ass but he was the type that said nothing until it counted. Then, you knew he was sincere, and only then you could really weigh the meaning of his words without worry of false sentiment.

“Is something wrong?”

His low voice had an undertone of softness, a startling contrast to the harsh way he pronounced his syllables. You shook your head, flustered to be caught staring at him.

“No, nothing.”

“…I’m worried.”

It was strange of him to admit this emotion to you, much less any emotion at all. You knew that Otabek felt, of course—nobody was made of stone, no matter how much they might’ve wished—and you already knew that something was bothering him enough to come to his grand-parent’s garage and work on his motorcycle.

“Is it because you’re leaving to America for practice?” you asked. He nodded ever so slightly, the low sun casting a shadow across his face that seemed to hollow his expression out further. He’d hated Russia, but Kazakhstan didn’t have the same resources for skaters like the West did.

“You don’t need to be worried. I’m sure…” you hesitated to find words before deciding that Otabek would appreciate simplicity best. “I’m sure that you’ll do just fine.”

He glanced over at you, his dark eyes skimming your figure before landing on your face. You’d known Otabek for how many years now? Hell, you didn’t even know. The boy had been a part of your memories before you even had memories. Still, you couldn’t say you knew him, because nobody knew anybody. But the way he looked at you made you feel as if he knew you. His gaze hit your soul and a light lit up behind them, his cinnamon bark eyes sparkling with the light of the sun.

The same tiny smile raised the corner of his lips and he looked down. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. I’ll take care of your bike when you’re gone, so don’t worry about anything but practicing hard. So that… you can come home.”

“Home…” he mused. “Yes, it will probably… be a while. Before I can be home again.”

“Otabek.”

Normally you avoided referring to him by his given name, and he looked up again, his eyes flashing as he looked at you. A grin was on your lips and you reached out, rubbing the grease from his skin.

“You’re always home when you think of me.”

Another smile was on his face and he closed his eyes, nodding once into your touch.

“Yes.”


	2. [ii] - the room with the coloured glass window

“It’s day, there?”

“Mhm.” You stretched and rolled, looking up, holding a hand over your eyes to block the intensity of the sun’s rays. The house was old and the window had an ancient mosaic of Christ from your great-great-great-great grandparents’ time, bringing splashes of red, blue, and turquoise all over your bedroom. It was a little annoying to have the rainbow of colours in sight at all times, but at a still moment like this, you couldn’t help but grudgingly admire its beauty. You turned onto your side and closed your eyes again—this way, you could imagine he was sitting at the foot of your bed, where he always was after school or training. But, to yourself, you imagined that he was lying next to you in the tiny twin bed.

“What time is it over there?” you asked hoarsely. The phone was heavy on your face, your body still sinking deep into the mattress with grogginess. Otabek sighed quietly in a way that wasn’t tired or exasperated, but just his way of letting you know he was still there. He was too quiet, people told him, so he made little efforts to remind people that he hadn’t left or fallen asleep. You never needed these cues. You always knew. 

“It’s nearing ten. The moon’s full.”

“The moon, huh…” You cracked an eye open and squinted at the mosaic on your window, the sunlight seeming to bend and shift, light scattering across your retinas. When you closed your eyes again, the sting of tears accompanied with the lingering rainbow made you pull the sheets over yourself to block the sun. “Well then, I guess your moon’s my sun.”

Another sigh. The conversation slowed to a stop and the two of you listened to each other breathe. He was like a metronome, even in time, and you very nearly fell asleep again when he abruptly spoke up.

“You sound strange… is something wrong?”

“Leave it to you to know how I’m feeling without even looking at my face…” You couldn’t help but chuckle a bit, the tears fully streaming down your face. You were glad that he’d chosen to call without video, because if he saw your sorry ass, he’d surely do something stupid like rush home or worse—worry. “Altin, I’m fine. Don’t—”

“Clearly not.” He paused for a moment before exhaling slowly. His voice was hushed, almost conspiratorial. “…you can tell me, if you want to.”

“Yeah… I know.” You let out a long breath as well, wishing you _could_ tell him. But you couldn’t. Instead, you remained silent.

You sat up slowly and brushed the hot tears from your face, squinting blearily up at the mosaic. A faceless Jesus opened his arms towards you morosely, but it wasn’t His touch you were yearning for. Leaning back into the hard wall to ground yourself, you inhaled a bit shakily, afraid to shut your eyes again. If you did, you’d be assaulted by the memories and then you’d start crying for real like a baby, and then he’d get all fussy and—

“We’ve known each other a long time, huh, Altin?” you said suddenly, cutting off your own thought process before you shattered. Speaking quickly as if that might prevent the onslaught of painful memories, you rambled. “I mean, you practically live in my bedroom. I think you left some old hoodies in my closet.” Said hoodies had been tucked away out of sight, because you couldn’t bear to see them. Everywhere there were traces of him, but the only thing missing was him.

“Yeah, it’s been a while… but I could say the same. You practically live in my garage.”

“You have a nice bike,” you retorted. “I’m only there for your bike.”

“If you say so.”

The short but sharp banter was something you had missed, yes, but the sound of his voice couldn’t hold you. That was what you missed most. You missed holding him—but God, you also missed just sitting with him, knowing he was there without having to wait for those little sighs—no, you just _missed_ him. It had already been hard enough when he went to do his military service, but at least you knew exactly when he’d be back. It had been harder still farther back when he’d left for Russia, coming back changed, having changed without you. Now that he was fighting the war of the podium, he’d always be gone, flying out to compete and flying out to train. What if he flew out for so long that you never saw him again? Worse, what if he forgot about you entirely? You shuddered at the memory of his slender but roughened fingers running through your hair and nearly broke before seeing the red through your eyelids. You opened your eyes to the mosaic window slowly, looking up at Christ’s open arms. 

Otabek… had bigger things than you. He had the entire nation riding on his shoulders, praying with him, hoping that he could carry them to the podium. Kazakhstan wasn’t known for much, but with Otabek, turquoise finally rose to the world podium along with the reds and whites and blues of the West. For the first time, turquoise and gold were equal. The same turquoise as the sky behind Jesus and the same gold as His halo—Otabek was to be the saviour for Kazakh nationalism. 

He was strong and you were weak. But it was clear that you were the thing that made him weak, and you had to keep him strong. He had to be steadfast. Focused and strong. He had to stay steady, even if that meant you had to crumble for it.

“[Surname]… [Name].” He broke you out of your reverie and you sat up straighter, sucking in a breath to steel yourself.

“Y-yeah?” you asked, trying your hardest to hold your choking sobs in so that he wouldn’t notice. You winced at your attempt. He was Otabek Altin and he always noticed without fail. Even when he was toddling along at age 3, he always knew what you were thinking. In a way, you resented him for that, because you couldn’t keep a secret from him. Still, there was also some comfort in it because despite the fact that he seemed to know everything about you, including the bad… he stayed. 

There was another crackly sigh, a bit disgruntled. You knew all of his sighs.

“[Surname], if something— _sorry_?”

You frowned a bit at the jarring transition to English. English had never been one of your better subjects in school and put simply, you sucked. On the other hand, Otabek had excelled, knowing full well that English was the key to the West. You could pick out a few simple words like _yes_ and _soon_ , but the rest was gibberish. Otabek’s voice changed drastically, the lazy Kazakh you’d learnt to decipher transitioning into some sort of smooth spread of soft syllables. It sounded like a different person. The person you were listening to wasn’t _your_ Altin, the guy who sighed irritably to make sure people didn’t forget he was there. The guy you were listening to was _their_ Altin, the Kazakh boy who’d make the country famous and great. No, this wasn’t Altin, this was _Altin_. You closed your eyes and held a sleeve to your mouth, forcing yourself to calm down for his sake. He was bigger than you. He wasn’t just Altin anymore, he was _Otabek Altin of Kazakhstan_ , and you’d accepted that. At least, you had told yourself that you’d accepted it, even if you hadn’t quite just yet.

“Sorry about that.” He was whispering now, his tones dipping into a husky baritone you hadn’t heard often. “My roommate’s telling me that he’s going to go to bed soon.”

“You should, too. I’m sure it’s late.” Although you were relieved to be let off the hook to cry properly—in which properly is alone and pathetically—you also didn’t want to say goodbye, leaving you in an awkward middle stage of wanting to go and wanting to stay. You chewed on your bottom lip, banking on him to make the call.

“[Surname].”

“Yeah?”

“Take care of my bike, would you?”

You squeezed your lips together and nodded, even though he couldn’t see you.

“I-I will. I promise.”

“Good. Because it’s hard to sleep here.”

“I’m not going to throw your bike in the river if that’s what’s keeping you up at night—” you began a bit indignantly, before he laughed softly. The sound was so rare that your words froze right on your tongue, leaving you wondering if you’d just imagined it.

“That’s not what I’m saying. You’re in your room right now, aren’t you?”

“Um… yeah, why?”

“The mosaic. It’s hard to sleep… when I don’t see it. I can barely remember it. And it’s hard to sleep… when you’re not next to me.”

“…Altin…” The realization of the weight of his words draped over you and you were speechless, staring up at the motley of colours wordlessly. 

Another one of his sighs—sharp and forced. “I should go. You should go back to sleep.”

“Altin, I miss you,” you blurted out, the tears you’d been trying so hard to restrain bursting out explosively. Suddenly choosing to be selfish, you cried loudly, your words almost unintelligible between sobs. “I really _really_ miss you, okay? So don’t forget about me, okay? I’m going to take care of your bike so when you get back, you don’t have to worry, but I really miss you—”

“I miss you too,” he said quietly. You nodded again, breathing hard through body-wracking grief, but somehow, you felt that he knew without seeing you. Halfway across the world, by a plain window and cold moonlight, Otabek gripped his pillow as if he might your shoulder. His jaw was tight.

“You’re my home,” Otabek said suddenly, very quickly, feeling as if it needed to be in the air as fast as he could get the words out. “And I’m yours. So don’t miss me. I’m your home.”

“Yes,” came the muffled response. The sound of you crying pained him more than you would ever know, but you continued to speak, your words filling the empty feeling inside of him one by one. “I’m your home. I’ll always be your home.”

“Okay,” he breathed, closing his eyes. “Then I’ll be going.”

“Okay. Altin…? Don’t forget me, please.”

You hung up with that, the sharp dial tone buzzing in his ear monotonously. He shut his phone off and tossed it down his bed, rubbing tired eyes. He glanced back up to the full moon, bright and round but impossibly frigid, and he desperately wished that he were seeing a warm sun through a coloured glass window instead.


	3. [iii] - the house that smells of airan

You weren’t joking when you said that your family and the Altins were close. Your fathers had known each other since birth. In fact, ever since Otabek’s departure, his mother had practically scooped you out of your own home to mother and fret over you herself. You already had two sets of parents and you hadn’t even been married. You liked to think that Mrs. Altin was just missing her son, but you also knew that she felt bad for you, what with him halfway across the world like this. 

When Mrs. Altin got nervous, she cooked, so much so that her counters filled up to the point where she started laying pot roasts out on the floor. Today seemed to be an airan day, and you breathed in the familiar scent, remembering what it was like to be smelt on Otabek’s shirts. The pang hit you hard and you cursed yourself for getting sentimental again. 

“Mrs. Altin!” you called, sitting up straight suddenly as the TV program switched. “Skating’s on!”

“Oh! Dear me!” 

The large woman was large in all ways. Her soft body had always been imprinted on you warmly, but she was also over emotional, and carted around a box of tissues wherever she went. She was loudmouthed and loud; she screeched out of joy and she screeched at people to get out of the way at the market; but she was Mrs. Altin and you wouldn’t have her any other way. She charged out of the kitchen, mopping sweat off her brow with a quaint white handkerchief before sitting beside you heavily.

“The men are always working,” she ranted. “They never have enough time to watch their boy skate, and your mother at her law firm—always working! They’re always busy! Well, it breaks my heart, but at least my boy has _you_ to watch him, eh honey?” She laid her hand on your arm and you couldn’t help but flinch at the overwhelmingly heavy handed insinuation. 

“M-Mrs. Altin,” you stammered, growing red, trying to divide your attention between her sympathetic face and the television. “I’m just his friend, I mean—we’re good friends, but—”

“I told you to call me Mama, did I not?” She clipped you upside the head endearingly, clucking her tongue at you. “I hope you stop lying to yourself. Lying is a sin.”

“I’m not—”

“He’s up first, isn’t he?! He’s first?! O Lord—!”

“Um, th-that’s just the starting order. He’s going first, that’s all.” Despite your attempts to placate the woman before she went into hysterics or cardiac arrest, you were fully aware of your own embarrassingly quick heartbeat as he appeared on screen. You squinted at the picture. His hair was slicked back oddly, and his outfit was ridiculous. It was sparkly! But the guy skating around, waving in his sparkly suit and slicked back hair—that person was still Otabek. And you wouldn’t have him any other way.

You weren’t well versed in the technicalities of skating. You could hardly lace them up. Otabek hadn’t bothered to explain, knowing your interests lay elsewhere. Still, you could tell he was doing well. The Kazakh announcer spat out the names of jumps and rotations but you ignored them, watching his face instead. He looked peaceful. He looked… happy. Yeah. He was smiling. It didn’t look that way, but you knew him. He was happy.

Suddenly, you felt okay again. No matter how much Mrs. Altin cooked, you knew that it wouldn’t fill the missing hole Otabek had left behind. And you hated to admit it, but you had hated him for leaving you behind. You’d felt betrayed, because even though skating was his passion, you’d thought he was more passionate for _you_. Was it selfish? Yes. Was it love? Well, Mrs. Altin knew the answer to that, even if you didn’t want to admit it.

At the very least, even though you weren’t happy, he was happy. So you at least felt _okay_ again.

In the kiss-and-cry, his coach muttered something to him behind a hand. Otabek nodded mutedly, looking exhausted. He must’ve been, after such a long skate. You realized you’d been holding your breath and let it out, your frame slumping similarly to his. Mrs. Altin gripped you close to her, rubbing your shoulders.

“Oh, look! They’re getting an interview!” she said abruptly. You turned your eyes back to the screen, squinting through your vision as it swam in tears. You didn’t _want_ to be so emotional about Otabek pursuing his love, but you had always thought that… well, you’d always thought that he’d be skating after you, not a gold medal. But you kept convincing yourself that you were okay. 

“Otabek—!”

The following English was foreign and you frowned slightly, disappointed that you wouldn’t be able to understand what Otabek was saying. His voice was accented, his syllables a bit clipped in a totally unfamiliar way. Suddenly, his dark brown eyes flicked to the camera in an almost bashful way. He said something, turned a frightful shade of red, and began to stalk away before the reporter could even thank him.

“What’d he say?” Mrs. Altin asked you, giving you a strange look. You shrugged in return, genuinely having no idea what he could’ve said that made him act so strangely.

“You should call him,” you suggested, your voice sounding shrill as you struggled to hold in the pain straining you. “I think I’m going to go home. My mom’s off work tonight.”

“Oh, are you sure? Because you can stay for dinner! You and your parents, if they’d like!”

“That’s fine,” you said, smiling in a way that felt almost offensive to the kind woman because of how ingenuine it was. In truth, you didn’t think you could stand to be in his house anymore, smelling the homemade airan when he wasn’t there with you.

When you got home, you were greeted with the surprise of your mother being home first. She was a working woman, owning her own successful law firm, and although it wasn’t as if she were distant, you often didn’t see her until after hours.

“Mom, what’s up?” you asked, throwing your jacket on the couch. She picked it up and hung it up, having a grin on her face that you found suspicious. 

“You were watching Beka skate, I assume?” she asked, a hinting tone in her voice that you didn’t quite like.

“Yeah… why?” you replied suspiciously.

“I was listening to it on the radio. He said, er…” She said something in English and you scowled.

“Okay, now isn’t the time to tease me about how I flunked English, Mom.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll translate. He said: _the reason I came here was to win, but I also wanted to impress a girl at home_. Cute, hm?”

You stopped in your steps to your room, turning around slowly. Your blinks were slow and deliberate as your mother laughed at you.

“You’re lucky,” she said with a wink. “He reminds me of your father when he was young. Perhaps if he wins gold, you should marry him already.”

“I… Mom, don’t say stuff like that!”

Later that night, you had Google Translate open side by side with the playback of Otabek’s interview. And although it was mangled and ridiculous, you found that your mother hadn’t been lying to you. 

“Idiot,” you mumbled through tears, burying your own red face in your hands like he was doing miles away.

“Idiot,” he muttered to himself, running his hand through his hair anxiously. “Why did I say that…?”


	4. [iv] - the winding streets with broken glass

The roads of Kazakhstan were a bit rougher in the older neighbourhoods, and it was your best luck that you lived smack-dab in the middle of it. When they weren’t flooding with sewage and mud, they were pockmarked and littered with assortments of multi-coloured trash. Crumbled newspapers, cups and plastic chip bags were the new greenery. Despite the grittiness and grime, you felt that these disgusting roads had sentimental value to you. Traversing them with somebody created a bond. You always walked behind Otabek, tracing his larger footsteps, trusting him to know the right path. And he always did. Without him, you might as well have been told to walk a minefield blindfolded.

“Damn,” you cursed, pressing your bloody hand to your shirt hem. The drunks took haven in these back alleys like rats, scurrying along the thin winding roads like holes in the wall, and they left behind their bottles as piles of treasure. You could only hope that the edge of glass had been sterile enough to pass, and that you wouldn’t be sick or dead by the time Otabek got back. The memory of him made you bite your lip with more pain that the cut.

Despite the injury, you got up and brushed yourself off. You were only a couple blocks away from Otabek’s grandfather’s house. His family was yours at this point, and the trip was familiar. Even the stagnant air of baked clay and tobacco smoke was a comfort, but your only wish was that you had Otabek in front of you to guide your steps. 

His grandparents were out of the house, which made you thankful, for you didn’t want to have to explain the new gash on your palm. You cleaned it, cringing the whole time as soap stung at the raw flesh. You wrapped the hand in bandages, and, seeing that the red didn’t leech through, continued to the garage.

Otabek’s bike was his treasure. You and he rode many hot summer nights on it, going out to the highest hillside so that you could see the stars. Some days, they were so clear that you could taste their sugar on your tongue. He was a good rider; he liked to gun it fast on his own, but with you, he was always careful. Especially on these roads. The feeling of his warmth on your front; holding onto his belt loosely as the bike purred along; the feeling of air in your hair, with the smell of him in your nose suddenly had you lurching with crippling nostalgia. Him entrusting the care of his bike to you had been a passing joke, probably, but you took it seriously. The bike may have meant something to him, but it meant everything to you—it _was_ him, and blowing dust off the glossy black paint made you feel like his return would be sooner and sooner each day. You were smart enough to know that your labouring wouldn’t change things, but at this point, you were willing to try anything if it might make it happen. 

The front tire had flattened, air sucked out by disuse. The bike sagged forwards, looking sad, like a cat slinking away with hurt dignity. It was an easy fix. Otabek was better suited to the fine workings, but tire changes were no problem for you. Working it with one hand was challenging. It was doable, but you were slow. It was messier than usual, too, and grease dirtied your hand. You minded it none. Working on the bike never failed to calm you down. Your thoughts seemed to be able to drift away into pleasant nothingness as you concentrated—unscrew this to unlatch this, use this screwdriver to get this bolt and use this wrench for that—there was silence in your head save for the clinking of metal on metal. Drowning your memories of him was the best thing for you now. At least, that was what you told yourself to get by.

The phone rang from inside the house, startling you. You put the tools down and half-jogged back inside, not having heard his grandparents return from whatever errand they’d been out on. Still, you found that you had an obligation to take a message for them, and picked up the phone after finding a pad and pen.

“Hello? Altin’s house.”

“…[Surname]?”

“Ot—Altin?”

You were so surprised to hear him that you nearly called him by his given name, but hastily corrected yourself. His voice was soft and confused, but your heart leapt at the sound of it, and you struggled not to choke on your sudden excitement. 

“You’re… at my grandparents’ house?” he asked, speaking slowly. You nodded before remembering that he couldn’t see you, and blushing a bit, muttered a ‘yes’.

“Why? Did you want me to tell them something?” you asked, looking up at the clock. You frowned. You’d memorized the time difference by now, and bit your bottom lip. “It must be late there.”

“I… yeah, it is. I guess.” He paused awkwardly, before continuing. “I couldn’t get a hold of my parents.”

“Um… well, your mother is probably at the market, and I think your father is still at work.” You twirled a hair strand, expecting him to say something of worth. You were used to Otabek taking his time to compose his sentences, but he usually conveyed a lot of meaning through his well-thought out words.

“Oh,” was all he said, after taking a minute. You frowned. 

Suddenly worried with his lethargy, you asked tentatively, “Altin… are you okay?”

“What?” he replied, as if you’d just woken him up from nodding off. He let out a soft groan that sent your mind wheeling, and you thought you heard ghostly blankets shift in the form of rustling static. “Yeah. There was a collision at practice… they said I had a concussion?”

“A con—what?!” you yelped, standing up straight and nearly toppling over as your heart dropped to the floor. “Altin, that’s serious! What the hell! Are you really okay?!”

“You don’t have to yell,” he murmured, and you breathed out slowly, horrified.

“A concussion… well, did you go to the hospital? Wh-what did the doctor say?”

“I didn’t have to. I can still skate. It’s just that I’m a bit dizzy is all. I’ll be fine. I just wanted to let my parents know, so if you could tell one of them…”

“Altin, why do you sound so easygoing?” you pleaded, incredulity lining your tone. “You hit your head?”

“Uh… somebody ran into me when I was landing, and my head hit the ice. Apparently I blacked out, but I can’t really remember it…” He cleared his throat gently. “But it’s fine.”

“You _forgot_? This isn’t fine, this is _terrible_ —”

“I don’t care if I didn’t remember that,” he muttered suddenly, cutting you off before you could begin to cry. “What I do care about is that… the first thing I thought of when I came to was you. I remembered you. I thought you were there for a minute, but… well, I guess I’m glad you picked up.” He paused for a beat, and quietly murmured, “now why did I say that out loud…?”

“Otabek,” you breathed, forgetting the custom of using his surname between the both of you. You closed your eyes and took a breath to steady yourself, gripping the table. Your hand shook as you inhaled. “Otabek, please… if you’re hurt, you need to rest. I know you love skating, I know… but please.” You took a deep breath to steady yourself, holding on tight to the counter.

“I’m fine though,” he began stubbornly, as you thought he would. You ignored him, squeezing your eyes shut as you said,

“I love _you_. Okay? Otabek, listen to me—I love you too much to lose you to anything. It’s hard enough to not be with you, and it’s even worse to know you’re in pain, so _please_. I’m begging you. If you love me at all… please, just stop until you get better.”

“…you love me?”

Grease on your palms, heart in your hands, you nodded. He couldn’t see you, you remembered, so you sighed.

“More than anything.”

Because despite the fact that you and he had traversed these streets forever, you’d never said it, and neither had he. Maybe the both of you had known for a while, but neither had said it. Maybe it was fear, or maybe it was simple awkwardness—but this was the last straw. Knowing he was sitting, alone, without anybody to comfort him when he was hurt; he had to know that this was the last straw.

“I…” You heard more rustling. A bit suspiciously, he asked, “[Name], are _you_ okay?”

“Me?” you choked out, unable to help a spiteful laugh. “Otabek, you’re the one who has a brain injury!”

“It’s not that bad—”

“Did you even listen to me?!” you snapped, almost frustrated enough to start stomping your feet. “Are you deaf, now? I love you! What, are you going to throw that away?”

“No, that’s not…”

“That’s exactly what you’re going to do to me if you put your feet in those damn skates. You hear me, Altin? Rest! Get better, or I swear to the Lord almighty that I’ll be on the next flight over to make sure that you never skate again!”

There was a very short silence before he laughed. It started off as a soft chuckle and escalated into the kind of laugh that went silent, and for a second you thought that he’d actually rolled over and died.

“Altin?!” you demanded, tears blurring your vision.

“I hear you. No, I hear you…” He paused to laugh again, and you recognized it; he’d laugh at you like that if you shot your hand out into his to steady yourself from falling on the dirt roads. It was a gentle laugh. Familiar. 

The one you loved dearly.

“I feel the same.”

“Good. That’s… good.” You were well aware of how faint your voice sounded. You couldn’t help but be slightly ashamed of the great sweep of relief you felt when he returned your words. You wanted to tell yourself that it was obvious and that you’d known all along, but Otabek was Otabek, and despite the fact that you knew him, did you really _know_ him? Did you even know yourself?

Still, his words that always carried heavy measures spoke to you, and you knew, at the very least, that he didn’t lie. You closed your eyes, your legs giving way as you found a chair to sink into. Both hands clutched the phone, the bandaged one clumsy as your other trembled. You snorted at the memory of lying face up, staring at the wispy sky, having tripped and fallen like a child in a tub.

“You know, I slipped on the way here,” you mentioned abruptly, looking at the white club you’d spun around your hand. “Totally busted my hand. And your tire went flat, too. Then you get concussed? That’s a lot of bad omens… today’s not a good day.”

“You slipped?” he asked, suddenly more alert. “Are you hurt?”

“What? Me? A small cut. Nothing b—”

“Well, have you gotten it checked out?” he demanded suddenly, before you could even finish. “You cutting yourself in these streets is not a good thing, [Surname]. You need to be more careful and watch where you’re going—”

“I could say the same to you, Mr. Concussion!” you retorted indignantly. 

“That wasn’t my fault,” he muttered crossly, “the other person ran into _me_.”

There was silence before you began to laugh. You didn’t even know what was so funny, but for some reason, you couldn’t stop. It was the my-lungs-hurt kind of laugh, the I’m-wheezing-but-I-still-can’t-stop laugh, and you kept laughing and laughing until you started to cry.

“I was so _worried_. I _am_ worried! Otabek…” Your words got jumbled as you began to sob. It was a bit embarrassing, but you couldn’t help it, the rush of emotions like a crushing tidal wave over you.

“Sorry…. I didn’t mean to.”

He was soft-spoken and preferred simplicity, but despite the few syllables, you could sense his sorrow. You didn’t doubt how genuine he was, ever. Even when he was ice dancing, you didn’t doubt him. Even when he fell, you didn’t doubt him. Now, on the telephone, when you couldn’t even look him in the eye—you couldn’t doubt him. 

“You need to take care of yourself, too.” 

You sniffled agreeably until he made a questioning noise, expecting an answer.

“Right,” you replied weakly. You ran a hand over your bandage and inhaled shakily. You wiped the tears from your eyes, cursing your pitifulness and cleared your throat, sitting up straight to steady your resolve. “Well, you should try calling your mother again. She’s probably back by now.”

“Fine. Hey, [Surname].”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t walk where the road looks dark. The lighter parts are steadier. And don’t be clumsy; watch where you’re going—” His voice was stern and he lectured you monotonously, until you shook your head and spoke over him. 

“I love you, Altin.”

Back then, when neither had said it, it was the _I need you because I love you_. Now it seemed changed. Like something dormant had just clicked inside of you, you realized that it was now _I love you because I need you._

Another bit of silence. And then, steadfastly, without a single beat of hesitation from the ever quiet boy who held your hand to make sure you wouldn’t fall, the boy you wrapped your arms around as you biked down the avenues, slowly, late at night,

“I love you too.”


	5. [v] - the place that is home

You sucked your teeth with frustration as you gently tapped the bike’s light with your wrench. Something must have blown to get it to stop working, but you’d already checked everything, and couldn’t figure out what the big deal was. You’d practically taken apart the whole thing and put it back together, but the damn dinky-winky little light wouldn’t turn on. You scowled, pantomiming hitting it—you would never, for it was Otabek’s—but you pretended to smack it to see if the imminent threat would get the inanimate object to cooperate.

“Have you tried changing out the light?” a voice came from behind.

“I put in a new light a year ago,” you mused distractedly. You crouched down, your knees popping as you lowered into a deep squat to peer at the light. “It shouldn’t have blew out so early.”

“What if it was just a faulty light?”

“…I guess, but I didn’t think that such a big problem would come from such a small ligh…”

You suddenly trailed off, wondering why Grandpa Altin’s voice had suddenly rewound the clock 40 years. Could it…? You had to be imagining things. Your breath seemed to rattle in your trachea. Slowly, you turned.

“Altin?” you breathed. He stood in the garage doorway, hands in his pockets, as if he hadn’t been overseas for a near half decade. He was taller, thinner, but stronger looking. His face had aged into a man’s face, erasing the images in your head of the pudgy-faced boy. He looked much, much older. But he still looked as if he’d just swung by to pick you up for dinner. A poorly restrained smile twitched his lips and he looked down sheepishly.

“I’m glad to see that you’ve been taking care of things back here.”

“You’re… am I hallucinating? Are you really back?” You dropped the wrench to the ground, the obnoxious clamour of metal on concrete sounding real enough. Slowly, you walked forwards, nervously wiping now sweaty hands on the front of your dirty jeans. He stayed still, watching you come towards him wordlessly.

“I’m here,” he said quietly, in a breath that required you to lean in to listen. You had to crane your neck up to see him. “You’re not hallucinating.”

“Oh, thank _god_! Because then I would’ve been crazy for real! And everybody would’ve made fun of me, right?”

Despite your played off tone, you were screaming and dancing inside, throwing out mental ‘thank yous’ to every god that cared enough to listen to a dumb girl waiting for her lover to come back home. And he was here. He was really home! But you swallowed yourself, holding in all your glorious sunshine so that you wouldn’t taint the moment. You knocked Otabek on the shoulder playfully, and despite your best efforts, you were unable to hide the toothy smile as you struggled to contain your excitement.

“Why didn’t you tell me when you were getting back!?” you accused. “We only just talked yesterday! You could’ve told me then!”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. I didn’t find out that I had time off until last week, but everybody agreed to keep it quiet.” He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair off of your nose, causing a flash of heat to tickle your cheeks. Knowing full well that you were blushing, you leant away from him, pressing your lips together to hide the stupid fool’s grin that kept coming back. 

“You’re sneakier than I thought you could be. Everybody lied to me, too? Man, who can I trust here?”

He laughed hoarsely, a deep resounding laugh that you hadn’t realized you’d missed so much until you heard it now. His almond eyes were warmer than you could’ve even remembered and he extended a hand.

“Trust _me_. You should replace the light.”

Once you had, and the headlight was in full working order (much to your chagrin), you clambered onto the back and looped your arms around his waist. The giddiness of seeing him again was still making you feel like you could’ve leapt to the moon and landed among stars, but you didn’t want to seem so clingy when he’d just gotten back. You settled for leaning your chin to his shoulder, gently pressing your front to his back. He was here. He was really here again. Here, with you.

The bike purred easily, having been well maintained during his absence. His driving hadn’t gotten worse despite his time abroad, and the both of you were silent. You were brimming with questions about what he’d done and what he’d seen, but the moment was too precious to ruin with trivialities. You’d have all the time in the world to talk to him later. Right now, all that mattered was the warmth of his body joining with your own.

Looking up, the velvety sheets of night were only just starting to tuck away the blue sky. The gradient of deep navy to slow retreating azure was dotted with stars, easily visible this far from the city. You could trace out the constellations he had taught you, your eyes skimming across Orion’s belt as your fingers twitched around his.

“I love this place,” you murmured with realisation after he’d pulled over and stopped, killing the engine. The air was full of life, leaves rustling to give the warm wind feminine voices, faraway insects stubbornly awake despite the hour. The hill only boasted a gentle slope, but had an outcrop’s view down onto the city, where lights bustled along like cells travelling a giant’s vein. You had always felt so powerful looking down upon them, so big; maybe now it was more humbling. Maybe now you were just another cell in a giant, a whisper of a word between two. Otabek’s hand was strong as he helped you off the back of the bike. The both of you leant against it, faces turned up to look at the stars.

“It’s a full moon,” you realized aloud. It was bright, her light smiling down gently, curves of the craters a bit mischievous in their fashion. You felt Otabek beside you, really _felt_ him, in a way that—

“I missed you,” he blurted out suddenly. You blinked, startled by the sudden conversation when Otabek usually spent his time here in reflective silence.

“I missed everything, really… but most of all I think I missed you.”

His hand crept towards yours before grasping it, as if he did it so that he couldn’t go back. He took a deep breath, his fingers twitching around yours.

“I love you.”

Your hands were trembling in his. Hearing it? Just like that? You hadn’t prepared for this. Well, you didn’t know what to do. He felt it and immediately, a frown cut his features.

“Are you cold—?”

“No! I’m just—god, how do I say this…?” You’d never been in this situation before. Otabek had been your first and only love, and you doubted that he would’ve appreciated you spitting lines from a movie. You struggled to lay out cohesive sentences, but Otabek made another rare laugh. The smile looked natural on his face.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

He leant forwards. His nose hit yours and you both moved, micro-adjustments, figuring it out at your own slow pace. It probably looked awkward, painfully embarrassing, even, but it was a pace nonetheless. You felt his eyelashes flutter on your cheek. A hand found its way onto the small of your back. Your hand gripped the sleeve of his shirt. The air was hot. Unbearable summer heat blasted the both of you. But rivers know that there’s no hurry; everybody gets there someday. His lips found yours as the final destination and finally, you tasted it as much as you had always felt it; the sweet honey of youthful estival nights, the petrichor of steadfast, everlasting love. Otabek was your heart. Otabek was everything you weren’t and everything you were; everything you wanted and everything you needed and everything you never thought you could’ve deserved. Yet…

“I’m home,” he breathed. Your head bent forwards, touching to his chest. You heard each beat resonate through you, grounding you.

He was Earth. He was life. He was security in its biggest rival, insecurity, and despite the risks of taking this next step with him, you wouldn’t have wanted anybody else holding your hand. You wouldn’t have wanted to lean on anybody else. Your love for him might as well have been carved into stone.

You wouldn’t ever want to go on loving anybody else. It was him. It always would be—you and him. That was where home was. That was where home always would be.

_“Welcome home.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Elsewhere: https://goo.gl/dCFvez


End file.
